


Cold Coming

by Lono



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, The Gift of the Magi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 17:20:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lono/pseuds/Lono
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The art of giving Christmas presents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Coming

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Hello all. This is just my small Christmas gift for you all. It’s based on the sometimes loved/sometimes loathed O. Henry short story, “The Gift of the Magi”. The title, meanwhile, is from T.S. Eliot’s “Journey of the Magi”, because I’m nothing if not inconsistent and I apparently like things by men who only used their first names’ initials.
> 
> If you celebrate Christmas, I hope you have a wonderful, merry one. If you don’t, I hope the rest of 2013 is peaceful and happy for you.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, “Gift of the Magi”, or “Journey of the Magi”. No infringement intended.

* * *

  **Christmas, 1935**  


* * *

It wasn't easy at any point in the year. Being on the run for more than twenty months made for several moments of loneliness, but Christmas was the hardest time of all.

When Sherlock Holmes asked Molly Hooper to run with him, to help him, she'd not hesitated. Her parents were dead, so leaving London behind had seemed like a simple enough thing to do. She'd been living in a boarding house for young, protestant women (more for convenience than any piety on her part), and it stifled her. Though she'd made friends, they never gained that venerated position of "chosen family".

With a, "Come with me," Molly had run back to the boarding house, packed her single suitcase of possessions and told the frowning, thin-lipped matron that the house had a new vacancy.  She only felt guilty to be leaving her post as a nurse in the nearby hospital, but she comforted herself with the reminder that she spent most of her time in the basement morgue. She wouldn't be leaving behind many patients in need.

It was a strange thing, to be traveling around with a dead man. She was learning new definitions of the word 'subterfuge' every day. Before their run, Molly had thought it a simple matter to disappear. London was large enough, after all. But Sherlock’s notoriety was such that they'd only snuck out of the city and made it to Sheffield by sheer luck.

Then their real struggles began.

Though Sherlock was a wealthy man by birth, they had no way to access those funds and the North Country was under the staying hand of an enormous economic depression. He would grow frustrated when he'd realize that they didn't have enough money for much more than rent and soup beans. In part, because it made his job harder not to have money as a resource, but also because he was used to wanting for nothing.

Molly had never really had any money, so it was an easier adjustment for her.

She did what she could to keep them from destitution. When she wasn’t researching or spying for Sherlock, she took in ironing and mending for a few coins or a few rations. She'd sit in the dim light of their tiny, one-room flat, squinting and cursing under her breath at her uneven stitches while Sherlock slept, sprawled in a rusting, wrought iron bed.

The neighbors believed her when she’d lied and said that her 'husband' was out of work and he would merely scowl in reply to the scornful glances shot his way for his assumed laziness. It made no difference to him.

Late in the night, he'd leave and Molly would take her turn to huddle in the middle of the bed with the drab blankets, though she slept very little. He'd return from errands unexplained before the sun rose, and would sit on the side of the bed next to her hip. He sometimes spoke. More often than not, though, he remained quiet and just stroked her hair, running the soft, brown length through his fingers with a frown on his face.  

At first, it was the only time she saw him looking distressed to have her there.

Though they lived with the forced intimacy of their circumstances, Molly had long ago resigned herself to the fact that her love for Sherlock would go unrequited. He knew how she felt, after all. Another, far-ago Christmas, mortifying and heartbreaking though it had been for her, had done a cracking job of informing him.  Now, they’d been on the run together for nearly two years. If he’d wished for something more, he’d have done something about it. But this was a man who saw romance and love as a frivolity.

No, she was merely an ally to him, who’d been able to assist him at his most desperate hour and was still assisting him in any way she could. So her quiet heart ached even as it sang with relief that she could still do something for him.  

This year, as Christmas came around for the second time since they’d created a death and tried to forge a life, Molly saw that Sherlock’s sad expression rarely wavered anymore. He was growing discouraged and homesick and even angry at his involving her.

There was little comfort she could offer him. She certainly couldn’t give him _home._ Still, though he’d never shown much sentiment for the holiday, she decided she did want to give him a gift.

Her eyes fell heavy on the scant few pounds in the palm of her hand.

Not only was it not enough for a gift, but it would wipe out their money for a month’s supply of food. She couldn’t in good conscience use it. But oh, how it distressed her.

* * *

When they ran, Sherlock had taken two cases. The first held a few, nondescript changes of clothes. The second contained his beloved microscope.

When Molly saw him take it out of its case on their first night in their flat, he’d actually looked sheepish.  

“You never know when you’ll need to examine something with extreme magnification,” he’d said defensively.

Instead of replying, Molly had simply leaned down and kissed his cheek before busying herself unpacking her own suitcase into one, much-too-roomy drawer.

The microscope had been in Sherlock’s possession for several years. It not only showed its age in the tarnish that fought his careful polishing of the brass eyepiece, but it also, contrarily, showed signs of ill-treatment. Particularly in its objective lenses, or partial lack-thereof. One day, six months prior, a frustrated Sherlock had chucked the 100x lens across the room in a fit of pique over some, elusive clue. It had shattered and Sherlock had looked bereft when he didn’t think Molly was looking

* * *

She’d spotted the replacement lens in the window of a chemist’s shop one day as she hauled a basket of ironed linens to a neighboring building. She slowed to a halt as she stared into the dusty glass at the lens, her fingers itching to close around it and buy it on sight. But she knew without even asking that the cost would be too dear and there was no use in even trying.

But she made a point to look for it each time she passed that particular shop. It never moved.

Now it was Christmas Eve, and Molly felt that lens calling to her as if its very beckoning was something magnified. Desperately, she tried to think of how she could quickly get the money in hand. The only thing they had of worth in their flat was Sherlock’s microscope. 

Sherlock’s microscope, and as he’d once muttered, Molly’s hair.

Slowly, she turned to the peer glass hanging drunkenly on the cracked-paint wall. She pulled her hair from its braid and combed her fingers through it, weighing it with her hands and her eyes.

She’d received plenty of offers for her hair, even there in Sheffield. Its rich, undamaged color meant that it wouldn’t need any dyeing before being sent off to a wigmaker and then on to perch on some, wealthy person’s head. Barbers and hairdressers alike would shout out offers to her as she passed.

But would it be enough?

Before she could second-guess herself, Molly ran to the salon down the road. The moment she rushed in the door, she pulled off her cloche cap and said without preamble to Mrs. Ogilvie, the owner, “How much for it?”

The woman’s eyes widened at this sudden Christmas coup, and she came forward to stroke the hair with avaricious fingertips. “Oh, but this is a fine head of hair.  I can offer you £15 for it.”

That wouldn’t do. “No,” Molly countered. “Twenty-five.”

Mrs. Ogilvie winced. “Eighteen.”

“Twenty,” Molly said. When the other woman seemed to hesitate, Molly turned toward the door. “I can go somewhere else, then.”

“No,” burst out Mrs. Ogilvie. She knew she was still getting a bargain. “£20 will be fine.”

Nodding, Molly sank silently into the nearest chair and waited while Mrs. Ogilvie sharpened her scissors.

* * *

It was too short to be considered a fashionable bob, but at least the woman hadn’t left her bald.

Molly shivered as snowflakes landed with muted sizzles on the back of her now-bare neck, and she pulled her cap down low, trying to supplement warmth. But she hardly cared as she left the chemist’s shop, Sherlock’s gift carefully wrapped and in her coat pocket. She could hardly wait to give it to him.

Racing up the stairs to their flat, Molly burst in, her face splitting in a happy grin when she saw Sherlock sitting at the table, reading a newspaper.

He glanced up, and then did a double take as she pulled the cap from her head.

“What happened?” he demanded.

Molly batted his question away. “I just decided on a change. But guess what?”

“Quite a drastic change, don’t you think? Whoever did the actual cutting ought to be hanged. It’s an atrocious quality of cut.”

She was too excited to be insulted. Besides, he was right. Mrs. Ogilvie needed to consider a new career. “Guess what,” she repeated.

Sherlock sighed wearily. “I don’t guess. But I also won’t pretend to know what has you in a dither. Do tell.”

Molly smiled at him again, and hurried forward, placing the tissue-papered item in front of him on the table. “Happy Christmas, Sherlock.”

He frowned at it. No pithy comment came from his lips. Instead, he reached forward and carefully unwrapped the package. And then he stared at the lens nestled therein. His lips moved silently for a few moments before he looked back up at Molly. His expression was startlingly unguarded.

She felt the first twist of nerves, not sure what to make of his reception. Especially when he sighed and stood, walking over to his clothes drawer. He rummaged around for just a moment before coming back across the small room to stand before her.

“I remembered just this morning what day it is,” he explained. “Though I am oblivious to a lot of things, I am not oblivious to the fact that I owe you so much and that, while I am terrible about saying it, I’m so…pleased that you are here with me.”

Molly started to speak, a pretty blush filling her cheeks, but Sherlock shook his head. “When I learned that today is Christmas Eve, I realized I needed to act quickly. But I’m rarely careful about saving money like you are. And I knew you would hardly be impressed if I just nicked something for you. So I did the only thing I could think of to get some spending money.”

Realization dawned on Molly. Sherlock had not been studying slides of various slimes or particulates on a microscope stage when she walked in, as was most often the case. He’d been reading a newspaper, which was even more remarkable and somewhat alarming, frankly. Sherlock Holmes did _not_ keep abreast of local goings-on.

“Sherlock,” she whispered, “where’s your microscope?”

He didn’t make a sarcastic or caustic reply. Instead, he just smiled softly at her and said, “Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper.”

He leaned forward and laid a lingering kiss on her cheek even as he slid something into her hand.

Her eyes burned a bit, but she managed to look down at her own, tissue paper parcel. Her fingers felt stiff as she unfolded the delicate wrapping to reveal… “Hair combs,” Molly sighed.

Delicate, sterling silver hair combs to pull back long, brown hair. Combs bought by hands whose fingers had loved to stroke that hair in the early morning hours when home had never felt so far away.

“Oh,” she said, not trusting her voice. “Oh, Sherlock.” And she shouldn’t have trusted her voice, for it cracked on his name like a shattering microscope lens.

But he smiled at her quietly and shrugged. “Your hair will grow and will hold the combs and I can get a new microscope someday. One that has a new, oil immersion lens that is far superior to anything I’ve ever had.”

She smiled a little at that, and talked herself out of crying.

* * *

That night, Sherlock climbed into the creaky bed behind Molly and curled around her body. His fingers meant to search for her long hair, but he reminded himself that sometimes, things change and it’s not always cataclysmic. So instead of his hands finding her hair, his lips found the back of her neck. He kept his face pressed there as he sank into a deep sleep.

Some might call it foolish, what Molly and Sherlock did for each other that Christmas. Some might question the importance of something so utterly material that required such reciprocal sacrifice. But in the foolishness of their desire to bring Christmas and smiles to each other, they found the wisdom of each other’s happiness. In that way, they found the wisdom of the fabled magi.

* * *

 

**The End  
**

* * *

 


End file.
